


Friction Hitch

by lightgetsin



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, M/M, PWP, Ropes/Chains, bros becoming more than bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 05:39:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightgetsin/pseuds/lightgetsin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whatever. It wasn't like Jeff was under any illusions that Mike was deep or something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friction Hitch

**Author's Note:**

> This story ignores a whole bunch of inconvenient facts, like the days of the week various things happened, the presence of the creepy Keeper of the Cup dudes, and bondage safety protocols. 
> 
> Thanks to treewishes and thefourthvine. 
> 
> I have three squares in a row, and it only took six stories!

When they were in Philly, they fucked on Mondays. It started because the clubs were always a morgue on Monday nights, offering no one worth picking up, so after a while they just stopped trying. Instead they would go to Jeff's, order dinner, watch a movie, and screw. It was perfect.

Mike explained it to Cabbie once, when the two of them were out drinking alone. He was bragging because, seriously, that was a sweet deal. 

Cabbie said, ". . . oh my God, really?" and then laughed so hard G&T came out his nose. "You know who else screws on a designated day of the week?" Cabbie said eventually. "Married people!"

What the fuck ever. Cabbie was just jealous he didn't have a bro like Jeff to eat Thai with and watch _Die Hard_ with and suck dick with.

When Jeff was in Columbus, they Skyped on Mondays. Jeff complained about the time difference when Mike had a home game, but he never missed it. Ostensibly there was still the same reasoning – stay in on Mondays because it wasn't worth the trouble – but it wasn't like Mike was lighting up the club scene or anything, with a few exceptions. And to hear Jeff tell it, Columbus didn't actually have any clubs. Or possibly any restaurants.

After he was traded, Jeff got into L.A. on a Sunday. It worked out perfectly. Mike brought him home, took him and Arnold for a long walk on the beach until Jeff looked a little less shocky, and cooked him dinner. The next day they had a home game. Mike introduced him around and talked him through the usual routines. They won the game. Afterward, they went home and fucked on the living room rug, because it was Monday and they'd won, just like they'd done in Philly when it was Monday and they'd won, or it was Monday and they'd lost, or just when it was Monday. 

Halfway through, Mike said, "Hey, can I tie you up?" It was one of those things he said because it came into his head, and it was Jeff, so it wasn't like there was any point in censoring himself.

"Sure." Jeff said. "With what?"

"With your awful tie," Mike said, pulling it off him. "Give me your wrists."

He tied Jeff's hands together to the leg of the couch, then held Jeff's legs open and fucked him hard and dirty. Jeff made a lot of noise, his back sliding against the rug as he sweated through his shirt. He jerked involuntarily when Mike got him just right, his arms pulling.

"Yeah," Mike said spontaneously. "Yeah, try to get away from me."

Jeff blinked at him, and did. His big body flexed under Mike, his arms straining. 

"Yeah," Mike panted. He drove Jeff into the carpet with the press of his hips, putting his full weight down on Jeff's shoulders and screwing him and screwing him until they were both hoarse and limp.

When they were done, Jeff said, "That was new."

"You liked it," Mike said confidently.

Jeff made an exaggerated, thoughtful face. "I mean, it was okay," he said.

"Fucking liar," Mike said. He rolled onto his back on the rug and stared at the ceiling. "I wanna get some handcuffs."

"Cool," Jeff said. He freed his wrists, and wandered off to take a shower.

*

The handcuffs sucked.

They were black leather, because in Mike's opinion, if you were going to do something, you should do it up right. He used them to cuff Jeff to the headboard of his bed two Mondays later, the connecting chain looped through the slats.

And then they had sex, and it was good sex, because they were them, and they pretty much always had good sex unless someone was rocking the whiskey dick. With each other, anyway. Mike had definitely hit his share of duds with other people, and he knew Jeff had, too.

So it was good sex. But it wasn't the sex Mike wanted.

He tried cuffing Jeff's hands to each other, with lots of slack between them, and holding onto the chain himself. It sounded good in principle, but then their hands were just hovering in the air over Jeff's chest, and Mike was kind of stuck there. Not cool.

"Maybe police handcuffs," Mike said thoughtfully when they were done.

"No fucking way," Jeff said immediately. "You'd lose the key, and which one of us do you think would end up on Deadspin with photos of a freak sex-related hacksaw injury?"

"Okay, fine," Mike said sulkily, though Jeff was right: he would absolutely lose the key. "If you want something we can cut through, how about rope?"

Jeff thought about that. "Yeah, okay," he said. He rolled onto his side and stretched. "You know this is, like, embarrassingly transparent, right?"

"Shut up." Mike kicked him. Jeff rolled away, and straight off the bed to his feet. He wandered into the bathroom, laughing. Mike picked his head up to watch his ass go, then let it drop back to the pillow.

He had these recurring playoff stress dreams where he was skating with the puck, and the opposing D were coming, but he had a clear shot. But every single time he went for it, the goal shrank and the puck slid wide. Over and over and over again until the goal was the size of a dinner plate, then too small for the puck ever to go in.

The dreams always pissed Mike off. Because, like, seriously, subconscious, what the fuck?

And yeah, he knew what was going on here, because it was just about that level of subtlety. They took Jeff away from him, they gave Jeff back. And suddenly Mike wanted to tie him to things, make him try and get away, make him realize that he couldn't.

Whatever. It wasn't like Jeff was under any illusions that Mike was deep or something.

*

So it turned out that tying someone up was hard. Mike had figured you'd get rope, you'd get your person, and you'd go. Except when they tried that, Jeff's wrists popped out at the first serious tug. And then when Mike tied him tighter, he ended up with some hilarious but difficult to explain bruises and burns.

"Not even," Jeff said, the next Monday when Mike brought out the rope. "Not until you don't suck at it. Put it away. No, not _that_ \--" he grabbed Mike by the belt loops. "Your dick can stay out. C'mere."

So the next night, when some of the guys were going out after practice, Mike said no for him – and for Jeff, because everyone always assumed it worked that way, which was fine except on those rare occasions when it didn't. Jeff came home with him, though, uncomplaining, and poked around the kitchen while Mike tapped away on his laptop at the dining room table they used mostly for storage.

"What're you doing?" Jeff asked, wandering over and propping his elbows on Mike's shoulders.

"Learning how to tie you up," Mike said, tilting his screen away. "Get back in the kitchen and make my dinner."

Jeff ground a retaliatory elbow into his shoulder, but he wandered off without comment and started making chopping noises.

It turned out that people were really fucking serious about rope. Mike skipped over the basic stuff and went straight to the video tutorials. But all of them seemed to be about people who were way more interested in tying each other up than they were in fucking each other after. Mike watched five minutes of a dude painstakingly criss-crossing another dude's torso with a web, tying each knot as he went. It was pretty cool, but seriously, that was a lot of work. Mike skipped ahead half an hour in the video, only to see that _the guy was still doing it_ , and he looked like he was less than halfway done. Jesus.

So maybe the basics were where it was at, after all.

Mike started reading, and then, checking over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't about to get mocked out of his own house, he started taking notes.

He kept at it, off and on, for weeks. It was really frustrating at first, because no one seemed to want to tell him what he wanted to know. It would probably help if he knew what he wanted to know. If he just had the right words to search, he would have found it already.

Still, he did make progress. He bought better rope, so that he wouldn't be marking Jeff up with the course-textured one they used as a long anchor for Arnold during barbecues. Jeff was the one who opened the package when it arrived because, whatever, they looked at each other's mail all the time. Mike found him running the coil of soft cotton rope between his hands, packaging strewn around him.

"For your princess skin," Mike said, coming up behind him.

Jeff turned and lassoed him with a neat toss. "Maybe I should be the one tying you up," he said, grinning as he reeled Mike in.

"Beginner's luck," Mike said, ducking out of the coil. He swiped the rope out of Jeff's hands and bundled it up. "Also, no," he added, walking away. "I'm tying you up. That's how this is going to go."

That was pretty inarguable from where he was standing, and Jeff didn't look like he actually objected. It had always been that way for them: Mike did things to Jeff and Jeff took them. Jeff also did things to Mike, but it was more by way of existing than by way of bending him over things and screwing him stupid. 

Which wasn't to say that the things Mike did were necessarily up to him. Jeff had gone through this weird phase back in Philly where he'd put Mike's hands around his neck while they were fucking and told Mike to squeeze. Mike had done it, because hey, YOLO, and the way Jeff had surged powerfully under him and come like a fountain was hot.

Come to think of it, that was probably why Jeff was so cool about being tied up. These things just happened sometimes. Like muscle cramps, or wanting someone to choke you. You just had to keep going through it, and it would pass.

Mike started learning about knots. He had always been a fidgeter, so it actually worked out well to have something to do with his hands while they were watching TV at home or late at night on the road. Jeff watched him do it, amused and mocking.

At least until Mike cornered him in the kitchen late in March.

"Give me your wrists, I wanna make sure I got this," he said.

Jeff lifted his eyebrows, but did. Mike turned Jeff's hands palm-to-palm, shook out his coil of rope, and took a deep breath.

Thirty seconds later he had Jeff tied, a neat quadruple turn around each wrist and a solid anchor knot in between. Jeff had about six inches of slack, and he even looked like he might be considering being a little bit impressed.

"There," Mike said. "Try to get out of that."

Jeff did. He twisted his hands around each other first, trying to shake the knot loose or wriggle one hand free. When that didn't work he put his brute strength into it, his biceps bulging and whole body flexing as he pulled. Mike watched, steadily getting hard in his jeans.

"Okay," Jeff said, dropping his hands. "Maybe you don't suck at this as much as I thought." He was panting faintly with effort.

Mike towed him out of the kitchen with a grip on the slack between his wrists.

"Oh hey, it's Monday," Jeff said agreeably. 

Mike got Jeff's pants off and they blew each other on the couch, one after the other. Mike held Jeff's wrists up high out of the way when it was his turn, making Jeff do all the work with his mouth. That meant it took a little longer, but they were both completely down with that. Jeff was glassy-eyed and a little hoarse by the time Mike was done.

"Okay," Jeff said a few minutes later. He was lying on his back on the floor, his tied wrists dropped limply across his chest. "Did that scratch your itch, or whatever?"

"Maybe," Mike said, but he knew the answer was no.

So he kept learning knots. And in the meantime, playoffs started. Mike always thought of them like a tall mountain. The trick to winning was to run the longest and the hardest. Usually, you fell on your face halfway up. Usually, you could see it coming. But sometimes, once in a while, it was different, and you knew it.

Mike wasn't the only one to think so. He also wasn't the only one to second-guess how good they all felt by the second round, and to be waiting for the hammer to fall. He knew because Jeff was feeling the same way.

Except they won.

Mike's brain whited out for a full week. On amazement, then on an absolute lake of champagne. Later, he could remember what it was like to be a grain of sand in that ocean of crowd noise, and a snatch of hoisting the Cup for the first time, and a bit of hugging Cabbie, and a lot of hugging Quickie, because seriously, _Quickie_. And he clearly remembered huddling with Jeff somewhere quiet and dark for a few minutes, feeling like they were escaping. They weren't even drunk yet, but they just grabbed sweatily at each other, clinging and shaking and – yeah, crying a little – while Jeff said, "oh my God," and, incoherently but entirely explicably to Mike, " _Fuck_ them, fuck all of them."

It was a couple weeks before Mike felt like he had a decent grasp on reality again. He and Jeff split up somewhere in there to go home separately, but they tagged along for each other's days with the Cup like they'd always said they would. Mike stayed out of the way when it was Jeff's turn, letting Jeff and his family do their thing. He wasn't really a participant until the party that night, a relatively quiet get-together for about thirty of Jeff's closest friends. The Cup sat on the coffee table; Jeff presided over it, alternately pouring people beer out of it and trying to pretend he didn't want to hug it.

Mike figured out what he wanted to do, somewhere in there. He had to wait, though, because this was Jeff's day. But that was cool. It was less urgent, now that he knew.

Jeff came along for Mike's day. He hung out with Cabbie, mostly, so he was rarely in front of the camera. It was an awesome day. There was a running joke that hockey players planned their Cup day over decades, like some girls did their weddings. Jeff hadn't, but he'd listened to Mike's elaborate plans over the years, smiling along in all the right places. When push came to shove, Mike couldn't actually fit a quarter of the things he wanted to do into one day, and he had to give up half the stuff he could do in order to do things various people asked him for. That was fine; it wasn't like he won this motherfucker on his own.

He did insist on time for one thing. He threw an afternoon party instead of a nighttime one. It was way bigger than Jeff's, because that's how Mike rolled. It broke up by force at nine, though, because they all had a fireworks display to go to.

Afterward, Mike found Jeff in the crowd. "Let's go," he said quietly.

Jeff nodded. Mike didn't have to tell him what was up; Jeff just followed him, keeping his head down and not drawing attention by saying goodbye to anyone.

They took the Cup home. Mike's place was kind of trashed from the party, but whatever. 

Mike got them each a beer. They clinked bottles, then stood together in the living room, staring at the Cup and listening to the silence.

"Hey," Mike said after a while. "I wanna tie you up."

Jeff laughed. "Sure," he said, and threw down the rest of his beer.

He kept right on laughing as Mike brought the Cup into the bedroom with them. And he was positively wheezing by the time Mike had a loop of rope around the base and was reaching for Jeff's wrists.

"You never told me about this part of your special Cup day," Jeff said, choking a little.

"It's new," Mike said. He held one end of rope in each hand. "Lift your arms. A little more."

He tied Jeff to the Cup, his arms stretched over his head. Jeff subsided into intermittent sniggers. He kept smiling, though.

"So, am I supposed to pretend to try and get away?" Jeff asked, staring upside down at the Cup.

Mike paused in the act of unbuckling his belt. "Don't pretend," he said. "Try."

Jeff did. The Cup was heavy and the angle was bad, but he could still pull it across the bed. He would have knocked it over if Mike hadn't landed on him, forcing his biceps down and kneeing between his thighs. 

"Gonna fuck you," Mike said into Jeff's neck, setting his teeth there.

"Wow, really?" Jeff said, like an asshole. But he was breathless already, his body caught in a conflict between trying to fight and not wanting to.

Mike stopped talking. He got his fingers in Jeff, not taking too much time, and then his dick. Jeff yelled about it, loud the way he only was when he was half drunk but not totally plastered yet. 

Mike held one of his legs up, giving it to him fast. Jeff yelled some more, sweating onto Mike's sheets and pulling, pulling at the Cup. 

"Hey," Mike said after a while. "Watch this." He grabbed the two trailing ends of rope he'd left and tugged gently. Jeff tipped his head back, not getting it until Mike tugged again and Jeff could feel the ropes tighten around his wrists.

"Oh shit," Jeff said. "Oh shit, oh _shit_." His voice climbed, his body tensing as Mike fucked him, and pulled, fucked him, and pulled. 

Jeff fought, his hips bucking, shoulders straining. The bed rocked violently under them, and the Cup tipped over. Jeff had lost all his slack by then, so it forced him partway onto his side, too, his arms twisting. That was fine, because it let Mike get a knee solidly under his center of gravity, his hips twisting to follow Jeff's erratic movements.

They came in a frenzy of shoving and cursing. Jeff went first, and he made a series of desperate, broken-open sounds as Mike kept pounding into him.

Coming was like winning, on a smaller scale. The same disbelief, the same ecstasy, the same way his mind whited out under it all.

It took him a while to untie the knots. Jeff didn't seem to mind. He was already dozing, twisted uncomfortably sideways with a pool of his own come on his belly.

He stirred a little when Mike tugged the rope free and poked at his wrists.

"Stoppit," Jeff said, twitching away. He turned fully onto his side, blinking vaguely at Mike. "Are we gonna sleep with the Cup?"

"Duh," Mike said, dropping down next to him.

They lay in silence for a while, slowly cooling down. The tangle of ropes was still draped around Jeff's wrists.

"Dude," Jeff said loudly.

Mike jumped. "What?"

"Dude!" Jeff said again. "We just had sex on a _Saturday_."

"No we –" Mike started, then stopped. "Whoa. We did."

They stared at each other, big-eyed over such a transgression. ". . . Kinky," Jeff said at last.

Mike nodded. Then he said, "It was pretty cool, though. So we could try it again? Maybe give Sunday a whirl?"

Jeff began to smile, slowly. "Yeah," he said. "Maybe a Friday night, sometime?"

"Yeah," Mike said. "That works, too."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Friction Hitch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2312375) by [marianas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marianas/pseuds/marianas)




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